This afternoon I'm heading north for band practice, so you won't hear from me tomorrow morning. But this morning, now that I've finished my editing project, I'll be catching up on pesky little tasks like hauling winter coats to the dry cleaner, and calling the garage about getting my car inspected, and making an appointment for Ruckus to get a distemper shot. And I think I'll get a chance to spend some time with a few poem drafts, and to browse through the garden-design books I took out of the library, and to wake up my violin fingers with a little Bach.
I'll also spend some time getting distracted by the White House reality show, which this week is featuring Junior, TV's dumbest son. His idiocy boggles the mind. Doesn't it make you yearn for the good old days of Billy Beer?
Outside on the hazy bay, a score of sailboats twitches quietly at their moorings. I keep thinking that I should focus on this view, that I will miss it when I don't have it anymore. And I'm sure that's true: I'm a born elegist and second-guesser, who regrets everything and rereads books she didn't like the first time. But what a relief it will be to have my own small plot, my own back door.